


When Dragons Cry

by Miko



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Brotherhood, Childhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 12:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15072953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miko/pseuds/Miko
Summary: When the loss of their mother threatens to shake Genji's faith in the world, young Hanzo knows it's his duty to comfort his baby brother. He didn't expect it to comfort him, too.





	When Dragons Cry

The heavens wept on the day their mother's remains were laid to rest in the family grave. It was a soft, steady rain, like the tears of a heartbroken maiden too proud to sob. 

Hanzo was grateful. Nobody would question why there was water on his cheeks, and if some of the drops were more salty than they should be, only he and the rain would know. As the eldest son, eleven years of age, it had been made clear by their father that he was too old to cry like a child. 

At only seven and a half, his little brother Genji was not so disciplined. Genji cried openly, tears running freely down his reddened cheeks, his sniffles and choked sobs audible over the last of the sutras being chanted by the priests over the grave. The boy had a bewildered look in his eyes, the same expression that had been there since their mother had fallen into the last coma, before the cancer stole her away from them forever.

It frustrated Hanzo. Genji was old enough to understand what was happening. He shouldn't be looking around as if he expected their mother to appear and comfort him. He shouldn't be seeking reassurance that the past days had been nothing more than a terrible nightmare. He shouldn't be begging in the silence of his mind for the gods to fix it all, for her soul to return from the next life, for a miracle to happen.

Or perhaps that was Hanzo's own feelings leaking through.

Their father was silent, distant, as he had been since the doctors told them they had only months left with the woman who was the heart of their family. It was as if she'd taken all of the man’s ability to feel love and affection to the grave with her, leaving a stern, emotionless robot in her wake. 

There had been no more stories of the history of their clan told in quiet family evenings, no more tales of the dragons and their adventures. No more care for whether what he demanded of his sons was pushing them past their limits. 

Training sessions had become harsh, even brutal. Hanzo was tall and strong for his age, already well on his way to becoming a man, and he welcomed the physical strain as a way to keep his mind off the emotional agony. But Genji was increasingly falling behind, too small and grief-stricken to try hard enough to satisfy their father.

Perhaps life would return to something approaching normal, now that the worst was past. But Hanzo had a terrible fear that he was wrong, and the worst was only beginning.

That night, he lay sleepless on his futon, listening to the familiar sounds of the castle around him. Shimada-jou was very old, built in the traditional style, and the paper and bamboo shoji walls did nothing to muffle the sounds of the storm outside his balcony. The rain fell much harder now, wind rattling the walls, and he could hear the waves crashing against the cliffside over the frequent rumble of thunder.

Nothing else should have been audible over all that, but Hanzo was painfully aware of the continued muffled sobs from Genji's room next door.

Hanzo desperately wished the boy would stop. The sound of his crying made Hanzo's chest go tight in sympathy, and made it so much harder for him to hold back his own tears. Their father wasn't snoring, which might mean he wasn't present, or it might mean the man was awake. If Hanzo started crying too, even here in the privacy of his darkened room, would their father be angry with him for shaming the family?

What if their father decided Genji was shaming them?

That thought pulled Hanzo up off his futon. Though they had never been particularly close, and had grown farther apart in recent years as more and more of Hanzo's time was taken up with learning how to lead the clan, he didn't want to see his little brother suffer.

Grabbing the yukata spread over his covers, he pulled it on and tied it, then padded the short distance to the wall and slid one of the shoji screens aside. He was surprised to find his brother kneeling by the open exterior door, watching the rain and wind lash down past the sheltered balcony beyond.

Though the sound of the screen sliding was soft, Genji turned his head with his eyes wide. Hanzo noted with approval that the younger boy's hand darted to the small of his back, where there was probably a kunai or shuriken tucked away. As the children of a powerful Yakuza clan, they were always in danger of being kidnapped or harmed, and had to be ready to protect themselves.

When he saw Hanzo standing there, Genji's expression took on a mulish look. "I don't care," the younger boy hissed, voice low and wobbling. "I don't care if I'm a big boy and shouldn't be crying, or if it's bad to cry when she's gone on to a better place, or anything else!"

Clearly, someone had already been scolding Genji about his emotions. Their father, or someone else? Even Hanzo could see that it was crazy to expect a seven-year-old to do anything other than mourn his beloved mother with all his heart. 

"I'm not here to lecture you," Hanzo murmured, though that had been his intention. Not to tell Genji that he shouldn't cry, but to warn him to be quieter, so he wouldn't draw their father's anger. Now that he’d seen the boy, he couldn’t bring himself to shush Genji and then turn around and leave again.

Crossing the distance between them, Hanzo knelt in seiza in the doorway. Genji was in a cross-legged sprawl, but after a moment, the little boy shifted until he was kneeling properly too.

Together they looked out at the stormy sea, black waves against blacker sky, lit only by infrequent lightning. The jagged streaks left after-images dancing in Hanzo's eyes.

"Why do they make us _do_ so much?" Genji complained, sniffling. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, bottom lip trembling. "The wake and the vigil and the funeral and now the grave. On and on and _on_ , and all I want to do is..."

He paused there, probably struggling to find something he could say he wanted to do other than throw himself down and weep. Hanzo could understand, even as part of him was angry in response. Genji didn't realize how much he'd been spared the past few days, thanks to his age. 

"At least they decided you were too young to do the bone-picking with the other relatives." Hanzo's fists clenched against the memory of the chopsticks in his hand. Picking the bones from the ashes to deposit into the funeral urn was supposed to give closure to the family, but it had only sent knives stabbing into his heart every time he passed a bone from his chopsticks to his father's.

The reminder made Genji sniffle again, more tears welling over, and Hanzo felt bad. Sighing, he reached out and wrapped his arm awkwardly around the little boy's shoulders, trying to offer comfort. He was startled when Genji turned and threw himself against Hanzo's chest, clutching tight to his yukata as if afraid Hanzo would run away.

Swallowing against renewed tears of his own, Hanzo hugged the boy tighter. It was the closest they'd been in a long time, and he found comfort in the touch as well. "It's all right," he said, his voice hoarse. "You can cry here, with me. Just stay quiet so father doesn't hear. I won't tell on you."

They sat together like that for some time. Hanzo wasn't sure how long; the crash of waves and rumble of thunder was hypnotizing, and he fell into a meditative state without meaning to. Genji's slender body huddled against his, trembling with emotion, clinging to Hanzo the way he once might have clung to their mother.

Eventually, Genji's quiet sobs eased, and the boy sat up again. Turning to face the sea, Genji wiped his eyes, studying the stormy sky. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed, hesitant. "When I was a baby, I used to be scared of the thunder."

Hanzo bit his tongue rather than point out that it had been less than a year since he'd last heard Genji running to their mother for comfort in a thunderstorm. This was not the time to prod his little brother into a fight. "I remember."

"Mother told me that there was nothing to be scared of," Genji continued, solemn and soft. "That storms meant the dragons were playing in the skies. Their feet running through the heavens shakes rain from the clouds, the thunder is the roar of their laughter..."

"...and the flash of light off their scales pierces the clouds as lightning," Hanzo finished with him, throat tight. In his mind he could hear the words in his mother's voice, the story familiar from a time - not so very long ago, if he was being honest - when _he_ had been the one running to her to hide from the storms.

They were both silent again, each lost in memories. How long would it take, before he could no longer remember the exact sound of her voice? Before he lost the sweet scent of sandalwood and jasmine that followed her every movement? Before he could no longer picture her face clearly without looking at a photograph for help?

How long before poor Genji forgot, who'd had years less time with their mother?

"Are the dragons playing now?" Genji asked, forlorn and plaintive. "Aren't they sad to lose her, too?"

Finally, Hanzo understood why the boy had been sitting at the door, staring outside as he cried. Where Hanzo had taken refuge in the shelter the rain offered, Genji had believed the dragons were playing, oblivious to the grief of the humans below them. How callous the world seemed, in the context of the story.

He opened his mouth on an explanation of the science behind lightning and thunder. Genji ought to be old enough to have been taught these things in school, but if not, it fell to Hanzo as the older brother to assure his brother there was nothing heartless about the rainy night sky.

Something stopped him, as surely as if a rock had lodged in his throat, bottling up the words. Genji's expression was so open and vulnerable, trusting Hanzo to make him feel better. If Hanzo explained the truth, it might reassure the boy, but it would also take away a treasured piece of their mother's memory. That story, and others like it, were all they had left of her, now.

Genji might be old enough to know better, but he was also young enough to want to believe the tales their mother had told.

"They celebrate her life," Hanzo said instead, voice going rough again with his own unshed tears. "They honour her, with their joy to have her join them. See how they cheer for her spirit among them."

"Oh." A hint of awe crept into Genji's eyes as he stared at the storm in a new light. "You think so?"

"I know so." Hanzo made himself sound firm, as if there wasn't a doubt in his mind. In that moment, he _could_ almost believe it himself. It made him feel better, even as it brought the tears closer to the surface.

It seemed to do the same to Genji, because the boy was crying again, too. Catching Hanzo looking at him, Genji wiped his eyes and stared defiantly back. "I'm not a baby."

Wondering who had called Genji that, Hanzo shook his head. "You're a boy who mourns his mother. There’s nothing wrong with that."

Eyes narrowed, as if suspicious of Hanzo's motives, Genji demanded, "Then why aren't you crying too? Don't you miss her?"

If only he knew how near a thing it was. Hanzo swallowed, but managed to keep his voice steady. "Of course I do. But I am not a boy."

The noise Genji made in response to that was rude. "You're not _that_ much older than me, anija."

Despite all the heartache and grief, the taunt made Hanzo smile. The curve of his lips was small, barely there, but it was genuine. This was familiar territory, Genji forever protesting that he was old enough to do this or that thing, angry that Hanzo had privileges Genji was denied. "Father says I must bring honour to the Shimada-gumi, as the heir of the family. I must not show weakness."

Immediately he regretted parroting their father's words. They might be true, but it brought them right back around to the idea that crying for their mother was weakness, and he didn't want Genji thinking less of himself for it.

To his relief, though Genji looked troubled, it didn't seem to be self-directed. After a moment he shook his head, and settled against Hanzo's side again, his slight weight leaning on Hanzo's larger body for support and warmth. "Maybe they're not playing, after all," he said, gesturing at the sky. "Maybe the dragons are crying for you, because you can't cry yourself."

Bemused by the idea, Hanzo watched the rain fall. Though he knew it was nonsensical, knew all the scientific reasons why rain happened... the suggestion felt oddly right. "Maybe they are, Gen-chan," he agreed softly. Genji was getting too old for the silly name, but it felt right, too.

Maybe Genji sensed it as well. Instead of protesting that he was too big for baby names, he simply nodded as if Hanzo had said something wise. "Will you... will you stay with me tonight?"

Glancing over at Genji's unrolled but undisturbed futon, Hanzo considered it. The boy had stopped crying outright, but there was still a catch in his breath and a sheen in his eyes that said the tears could return at any moment. And, in truth, Hanzo was benefiting from the contact as well.

"I will," he agreed. On impulse, he turned and offered his back. Genji made a startled sound, then chuckled softly and climbed on, arms around Hanzo's neck and Hanzo's hands locked beneath him to support Genji's weight. It was a short distance to the futon, only a few steps, but the warmth of his little brother against his back was worth the silliness.

When they settled into place on the futon, Genji curled up against him, head on Hanzo's shoulder, small hand a fist on Hanzo's chest. He looked so tiny and vulnerable, so sweet and innocent. "G'night, anija."

"Sleep well, Gen-chan." Hanzo brushed a kiss against his brother's forehead. Their mother was gone, and their father had become a cold, harsh stranger. They were surrounded by 'family' who cared for them only as the children of a Yakuza clan's head, people who would eagerly stab them in the back for favour or wealth. 

But at least in that moment, they still had each other.


End file.
